The Real Story
by namelesspanda
Summary: Edith, the middle sister. From 1903 to 1922, she compares herself constantly to Mary. Begins with the rivalry over Cousin Patrick and tells their story as they grow and move through heartbreak, together and apart-but mostly the latter.


May 1903

To any passerby, the flustered woman ushering her three girls through the centre of town would not look like a countess. Her immaculate countenance is fading, even her posture slipping as she stoops to herd her fussing daughters into the shops. Indeed, Cora Crawley isn't quite settled into her throne yet, and it shows—these little darlings seem to acknowledge the insecurities of their mother, even if she won't.

The two youngest are currently standing on tiptoe in their flat shoes, mimicking the relatively young countess, whose feet are trapped in horridly high heels that rub irritatingly against her stockings. The eldest, Mary, turns up her nose and pretends to take the lead, but is continually glancing over her shoulder to make sure that the rest of the Crawley women are behind her.

Half-past three finds them in a tailor's shop, the finest in the village. The mustachioed man scurries about, measuring Mary first, which is easy since her corset-wearing figure is perfectly shaped—slim, narrow, elegant. Then he instructs Edith to go change into her slip and undergarments.

She hears the door to the small changing room click behind her as she takes in her appearance in the full-length mirror. For a few moments, she stares at herself, stares at the slightly pooching-out puff that is her waistline, stares at the seemingly flabby baby face, stares at the too-flushed complexion. When she strips off her shoes and dress, the situation does not get better. Even with the petticoat, it's painfully obvious that the outline of her legs is not slender and graceful but sturdy and short. Petticoat gone, and she can now see the speckled skin that stretches over her frame. She looks like a cow. Or maybe a hen, with rumpled feathers.

"Edith darling," her mother calls through the door.

"No." Her voice, sharp and clear but still so very young-sounding, bounces off the walls of the chamber. Suddenly, she is nothing but self-conscious, and she reaches for her dress, glad to cover herself even though there is no one to see her—yet. "Can't I do this some other time, Mama?"

Cora sighs. "Oh, really, Edith, can't we skip the dramatics just for today?"

"But I don't want to," she says, aware that it sounds more like a whine.

Her mother's tone drops to a furious whisper. "There's no _other time_ for this. If you want a new frock then you will do the fitting _now_."

"Fine," Edith replies loftily, starting to do the buttons on her dress with fingers that now look pudgy to her. "That's just fine."

When she finally emerges from the stall, her face hot with embarrassment, her mother shoots her a disapproving glare. Sybil toddles past, her soft dark hair pulled back with a new ribbon, and Edith feels another pang of jealousy. "Mama!" her baby sister crows, and tugs at the hem of Cora's skirts.

Mary just rolls her clear, dark eyes and issues a wisp of a sigh. "Could I have a new pendant to match?" she asks. "I don't think that the pearls will go."

"'Course," Cora says distractedly. She is now obviously too occupied with coaxing Sybil back into her shined black shoes, Edith notices with a bitter frown.

"But Mama, could I—" she tries, her voice much like over-oiled hinges on an opening door.

"Enough!" her mother snaps, and Edith shrinks back, mortified. "Behave yourself. We are in _public."_ Her voice stings more than the prick of the tailor's pins and needles.

The middle daughter pulls her summer hat to cover her face as she sinks down into a wooden chair.

With the fraying straw scratching into her skin, she takes a few shallow breaths and tries to ignore the gleeful shrieks from Sybil as she runs about shoeless. Why should _Mary_ get an pristine ball gown and necklace, while she is once more stuck with nothing? Mary is a brat, she thinks, whereas she, Edith, has never even dared to be so despicable, and she just knows that Cousin Patrick would rather read a book with her than talk with her sister. The voice in her head is snide and sulky, almost unrecognizable.

"Sit up," a voice hisses, and she slowly removes the hat from over her eyes to see her mother glaring at her. "And for heaven's sake don't hide behind your hat."

* * *

_November 15, 1904_

_Dear Patrick,_

_I have decided that I hate my sister. Not the baby, the _other one._ I shan't say her name but you know who she is. You know that Fraulein Kelder has been teaching me piano—I will play Mozart for you next time. His sonatas are pretty. But my sister said that my playing sounded like horses and everyone knows that pianos are __not__ supposed to sound like horses. I wonder what she means by that. Hooves, probably, but Fraulein said that my playing was very good. Better than __my sister__anyway, and I don't think she was too happy about that, so she's taken up singing. She is learning some horrid song in Italian. Why do they write the words in languages that the hearers can't understand in the first place? Naturally everyone thinks she could have a future in the opera if she weren't an earl's daughter. Mama said that it would be lovely if I accompanied Mary. I know it was a compliment to my piano playing of course. It was quite nice of her to say. _

_Even Carson seems to think I'm different. I asked him this morning if he could take this letter down to the post when it was finished, and he looked at me like I was a witch. Or something else that is simply frightful. Then Mary came in and asked him if he could—that is, __my sister __asked if he could have a tray sent up to her room at half-past and he said, "Of course, milady." _

_Has she ever looked at you in a way that tells you that you are something to be scorned, discarded, and generally looked down upon? I know she's said some awful things in the past but she doesn't mean them. And if she does, she's wrong. She's wrong about you; she's wrong about everything. _

_This probably sounds terribly shallow to you. How is Cousin James? And what of your dog Flora? I found the book you mentioned in Papa's library. The mere idea behind the Karenins and the love affair was so indelicate. I hadn't thought you were one to appreciate a flowery romance._

_With the hope that you are well, _

_Edith_

* * *

February 1912

She is supposed to be conversing politely with Mrs. Russell, but is finding the stuffy drawing room conversation to be dull, especially since she can see Patrick out of the corner of her eye. He's sitting alone on the sofa, pretending to drink from a glass of claret. Edith feels a rush of fondness—dear Patrick, always trying to be so proper. She knows that Mary thinks of that as predictable, but to her it isn't ordinary…it's just the way he is.

"Excuse me, I've just remembered…" she says, and rises to her feet to join Cousin Patrick. Her face flushes slightly as Mrs. Russell murmurs something under her breath, and suddenly the room seems vast. Knowing that she has just brushed the elderly woman aside with hardly a word of explanation, it seems she has no other option but to flee. So she does, almost numbly, and lowers herself into an armchair. "Hello."

"Cousin Edith." Patrick nods. "And how are you this evening?"

She can almost visualize the pink tint that is spreading across her cheeks as she sits down. "Very well." There's a brief pause, and the only thing can she can think of to say is, "And are you prepared for your journey to America?"

"Ah," he says, and feigns taking a sip of wine. "Father wants to cross in May, but I'd rather go now and be done with it." He laughs lightly. "The sooner we go, the sooner we're back, you see."

"Will I see you again?" She fumbles over the words. "Be—before you leave?"

Suddenly there is a swish of silk and someone's gloved hand is on Patrick's arm, possessive almost—though its owner would usually be ashamed of him—and a voice is saying, "I do hope Edith isn't boring you, Patrick."

She glares up at her sister, silently challenging her. Mary just smiles at her—smirks really—and flutters her eyes at the heir.

"She could never," Patrick says, self-assured for once. His gaze, which looks like the bark of a tree today, darts between the two of them. "We were discussing, er, the trip to America."

"New York is lovely."

Edith grimaces. It's been years since they'd crossed the Atlantic for Grandpapa's funeral, and she hardly remembers any of it. "Are you going to be visiting the West?" she asks.

Clearing his throat, Patrick takes another affected swig of claret. "New York first, I do believe, then Boston, and back down the coast. And perhaps we'll venture out to Cincinnati."

"How exciting," Edith says. A twinge of envy wriggles its way into her tone. "I've always thought it so _interesting_ how we disparage them, but it's almost like we're morbidly fascinated."

Mary rolls her eyes. "Oh, please."

But Patrick only looks thoughtful, considerate and as mild as ever. "I do think you've a point there, Cousin Edith."

Blushing, smiling, and feeling utterly silly, she focuses her gaze on the far wall so as not to mock her sister. Really, that would be so satisfying, only...she makes it a point to be better than Mary at all times.

* * *

August 1914

Sir Anthony leaves the garden party all too soon. She hears from her mother, who heard from her grandmother, who heard it from Cousin Isobel who got it from Robert, that Anthony claimed a headache. Her teeth are chattering, her cheeks are prickling, her toes are curling of their own accord inside her too-tight slippers, and her corset has suddenly turned into a form of torture. But she can't let it just a little looser—God knows what would happen to her figure over time.

She catches sight of two embracing figures by the grove of trees and feels her heart clench sickeningly. Of course Mr. Carson is there for his precious Lady Mary when—whenever catastrophe strikes. She can't help but feel the slightest bit satisfied at the fact that Matthew is striding at the edge of the festivities, seeming to be purposefully avoiding her sister. Oh, she knows it's wrong to be glad about it, but it's just so _fitting._

The sun streams down on them as her father calls for silence.

* * *

November 1918

For Edith, it is like the Resurrection. Her family is worse than Thomas; they won't believe, no matter if the man is Patrick, because they're putting up walls, bars, anything to keep him out.

It's the little things that tell her. His simple gestures, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes—though _they_ would all say that's just a product of his injury. The way he talks to her—"you're so sweet, you know"—is just as she's always dreamed.

And then, so soon, he's gone again, leaving only a note. P for Peter? Or P for Patrick?

Suddenly, she feels an animosity toward her elder sister that she has not felt for years. Because Mary drove him away—never proud of having him as her fiancé, and now too caught up in her affairs with Carlisle and Matthew to remember him. So damn her, she thinks fiercely.

But everything is so awkward already, so frosted over like a chilled windowpane, that no one heeds her miserable silence.

* * *

May 1920

Her horrible tendency to forget her book has always been an annoyance. Currently, she is reading _Jane Eyre_ and she has absolutely no recollection of where she might have left it. She doesn't dare venture to Mary's room where she was earlier, lest there be a lovers' encounter in progress (with the wedding only a few weeks away, and it _is_ the middle of the night, after all). The library seems like the second-most logical place, and she is still clad in a skirt and blouse, so it seems acceptable for her to wander down. There seems to be light from within the room, but she falters just outside the doorway when she hears two male voices, murmuring and unclear at first.

"With all due respect, Mr. Crawley…" says a voice, and Edith's eyes widen. It's Branson. That cad.

"She won't forgive me," says the other, mournfully. It must be Cousin Matthew. "But I wouldn't be myself if I didn't say what I—don't you understand?"

"Better than anyone," Branson commiserates.

She retreats as silently as she can, but her shoe falls onto a creaking floorboard and there is a sudden hush. She holds her breath in—oh God, what if they find her? What will they think of her? She's soon to be the maiden aunt, queer and lonely in everyone's eyes, but she doesn't want to be the eavesdropper either.

"But you won't be happy with anyone else," her brother-in-law continues, seeming to have deemed it safe to speak once more, "while Lady Mary walks the earth."

So this is why the two men are closeted in the library, she realizes, as her cousin lets out a resignedly bemused chuckle that is audible even through the grand door.

"No—no, I don't suppose I would be," he mutters, and Edith can picture his wry smile.

Her thoughts crash over and into each other in a mad fury. Has something happened between them yet again? Really, it's exasperating and nothing more at this point. When will they find their peace?

The sounds from the library fade into perfect silence as she proceeds down the hall to the drawing room, which is also still lit. Truthfully, she doesn't know when the servants put the lights out, because she has never been one to roam the corridors late at night—though perhaps soon the servants will be gone, and all of it will be lost, and she will have to find some wealthy man to marry, somehow, miraculously. The door groans as she pushes it open, her gaze immediately alighting upon the cover of Brontë's novel—which is perched in the hands of her elder sister.

Mary's face is hidden behind the book, but her voice rings out loud and clear. "Oh," she says, somewhat sourly. "So you're down here as well."

"I—think I left my book in here," Edith replies, her tone pointed more sharply than the toes of her pinching shoes. She swears she can hear a sniff from Mary. "Are you—all right?"

"Perfectly."

"Oh." She sits in an armchair. "And you're reading…?"

"The wedding has been ruined." Mary's voice is flat.

"I—what?"

"Jane and Mr. Rochester's," her sister clarifies, turning a page. "He's a lying bigamist."

"Right." Edith folds her hands in her lap and stares uncomfortably at the clock.

A few seconds pass. "Aren't you going to find your book?"

"I'm afraid you're holding it."

Mary sighs, and Edith just knows that she's trying to pull together enough composure to roll her eyes. "Can't you find something else? I don't want to fight with anyone else. Not now."

"But—what do you mean?"

A pause. "He's not on our side, you know." Her voice is bitter as she finally pours out the truth, almost as if she's decanting tea into a china cup. Her shoulders do not shudder, nor does she crumple into a sob, but instead she sits tall and proud. "He's not on our side at all."

"Who?" Edith asks, leaning forward almost instinctively. She comes within an inch of placing a reassuring hand on Mary's arm, but recoils at the last second. "Matthew?"

"Who else?" Mary snaps, coldly.

"But the wedding." She knows something isn't right, not from the way the two men were, but Grandmama has come all the way from New York for the ceremony. "It's in—three weeks."

Her sister lifts an eyebrow, almost challengingly. "Two."

Edith nods as if to reassure. "Of course it will happen," she says.

"You can't know that."

Fourteen days later, the wedding bells ring in the church of Downton.

* * *

September 1922

It's been a year.

On the evening of their anniversary, Sir Anthony Strallan arrives in the foyer of Downton Abbey while his wife drives down to the heir's house. What awaits her is screams and shrieks, a worried and pacing brother-in-law, and a somewhat useless butler-valet who points her in the direction of the stairs.

Her mother is there, her smile is strained but unwavering. Anna fetches towels and cloths and readies the baby blankets. The midwife hovers at the bedside of Mary, who is panting and sweating most indelicately—and glaring at everyone in the room.

Edith plasters on a beaming expression and crosses to her sister's side. "You're going to do wonderfully," she says.

"Oh, would you just shut your mouth for once?" her sister admonishes her sharply, before another wave of pain takes her and shakes and won't let go.

Edith winces. "No," she declares. "I won't. Because you're going to be a truly brilliant mother."

Mrs. Bates reaches over with another cool cloth as Mary shudders. "Where's Sybil?" she snaps, grating her teeth against the discomfort.

Feeling inadequate, the middle sister murmurs, "Dublin." And though her tone is injured, she does not move from her post for several hours, even though there are shrieks of agony and blood, so much blood, red and warm, smelling almost metallic and then, later, festering. But she stays, until there is a collective sigh of relief and a baby's wail, until the afterbirth process is through, and the little girl (_Elisabeth Patricia, _Mary tells them) is pronounced an absolute darling, while Edith swallows back her tears.

Her eyes meet Mary's for a brief moment, just before the hesitant squeal of the door signals the arrival of the nervous new father. It's a look of gratitude, Edith understands, and she feels a sweeping sense of peace as Matthew fumbles his way through the women. Cousin Isobel is still clutching a bottle of iodine, and her apron is slightly splattered with brownish blood, but she gives her son an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Anna, too, wears a slightly damp, fond smile.

Mary laughs softly at his gaping expression. "And this is your Papa," she murmurs to the little girl, who responds with a noise that could be classified as a coo.

"Hello," he says, still hovering near the side of the bed. His voice is hesitant, his countenance completely terrified.

"Oh, for God's sake," Mary says, rolling her eyes affectedly. "Go on."

Clasping her hands to her chest, Cora smiles, almost giddy with happiness as the scene unfolds before her. "Oh," she breathes.

"Perhaps we should give them a moment," Edith suggests.

The sitting room in Crawley House simply has to suffice as a place for recuperation. Molesley brings copious amounts of tea and biscuits, and they all devour them. Even Robert, who hasn't yet set foot in the birthing chamber, is worn out.

Later, when Mary has drifted to sleep, Edith tucks her niece into the cradle. The baby looks almost exactly like her namesake. "Hello, darling," she whispers. "I'm your Aunt Edith." She glances round quickly to make sure no one else is listening—they're all downstairs, except for her sister, who is snoring delicately. "You look just like your Cousin Patrick, do you know?"

Elisabeth Patricia answers with a little squeal, waving her chubby fists in the air.

"Oh, don't worry," Edith continues, her voice catching. "You don't look like a man. You see…Patrick looked a bit like a girl."

The baby hums, blinking her watery brown eyes.

"But he was awfully nice. Your Mama and I used to argue over who got to sit next to him at dinner." Well, it isn't the whole truth. "Though—we used to argue over _everything._ Someday, you'll hear from her, no doubt...that I was the evil fairy queen, or something."

A laugh from downstairs drifts through the walls, and Elisabeth wriggles underneath her blankets as Edith begins the _real_ story.


End file.
